


Cradle

by wordswithinmoments



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cellist!Sakusa, Childhood Friends, F/M, First Love, Fluff and Angst, Friendship with Seijoh!!, Grief/Loss, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Triangles, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Musician!Reader, Mutual Pining, Orchestra, Other, Pining, Reflection, Self-Reflection, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, alooooot of reflection, oikawa & hajime childhood friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:16:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26136367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswithinmoments/pseuds/wordswithinmoments
Summary: First is love; in the forms over the years you come to know. Then second is grief and loss; and how the struggle that comes with it defines and reshapes you. And finally third is acceptance, where you realize that the awakening to love and life’s questions have always just been in the palm of your hand.This story is for those who shielded themselves from love before it could even hit them.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime & Reader, Iwaizumi Hajime/Reader, Sakusa Kiyoomi & Reader, Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader, sakusa kiyoomi/reader/iwaizumi hajime
Comments: 13
Kudos: 96





	Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> a month long wip! writing this broke my heart because it felt like i was reliving the loss all over again, but at the same time it became a release for me. i hope this story and its message reaches those who need to hear it. sending all my love to you :)  
> this is crossposted on my tumblr (it's on queue atm) (myelocin)

For you, love began in the unknown.

You say unknown because you don’t remember much of your childhood other than the flashes of residual warmth that came with the memory of your mother. For as long as you can remember, she always felt like that: warm and familiar—like home.

Her presence like the warmth that stays on your coffee mug long after you’ve consumed your drink. Warmth like sitting in front of a fireplace as you watch the last bits of firewood extinguish in the flames.

And your fondest memory perhaps—warm like the hands that cup your face and kiss your forehead every morning before you left for school.

The early years in your life meant days spent in planted gardens outside of a kitchen window where the pink and yellow flowers bloom in the spring, and jumping in the fallen leaves raked in a pile centered in the backyard in the late autumn.

Then in the winters, when it became too cold to lay in blankets in the backyard stargazing for constellations—you’d spend the Christmas nights listening to bedtime stories about her time traveling the world you have yet to explore. _“You’ll fall in love with seeing what’s out there,”_ you recall her saying as she tucks you in bed with the green blanket she knitted for you when you were a baby.

Though you suppose even if you loved the winter months with her the best—you could never go wrong with sipping the iced tea she’d leave for you on the porch in the afternoons you spent outside in the summers. The iced tea she made was _always_ the best: never too sweet, and never too bland either.

And for the most part of your childhood, your father was absent. You didn’t really care; his absent never lingered. So even when the bratty kid from the classroom next to yours would brag about the _brand new jacket_ her papa bought her from a trip overseas—you didn’t care. The jacket you wore was still the same one from last year, and the scarf wrapped around you was the one she knitted two winters ago, but the way she wrapped you up and kissed your nose made the taunting escape your mind.

Your mother would tell you stories about the times when you were a baby and of how she’d tuck you in nice and snug in your blanket whenever she felt the room was too cold and then fan you out when the temperature rose. Apparently, when you were a baby you never cried too much so she was left to guess whether you felt comfortable enough with the room’s temperature or not. She always finished the story by saying you smiled at her either way so she supposes she guessed right every time.

You don’t question it because she guesses right _every time._

During father daughter dances that were annually held in your school, your mother always made sure to take the day off of work early so the two of you would have dinner some place nice instead. Her jokes were better than the ones your dad halfheartedly chucked your way when he did come to visit anyway, so you didn’t mind.

Your father ringing you up three hours before the dance with the last minute classic excuse of “ _sudden meeting today, I’m sorry.”_ didn’t bother you as much as you think it _should_ have when your mom was right next to you ready to tell you another story from her younger days. 

Her “ _younger days”_ as she liked to call it was always a favorite topic of hers that she always returned to from time to time. At eight years old, it felt like there was _so_ much of the world still to explore and despite her telling you to live your childhood to the _fullest_ , you didn’t ask what it meant and requested to hear an encore of the story she just finished telling.

She’d smile and you’d hear her tell you that _no,_ and that you should have _listened,_ but you know during the “father daughter” dinners shared between the two of you, she was extra soft and that it would take nothing more than pleading eyes and one more “ _please”_ before she’d relent and tell the story again.

She was always enough; every second with her felt just right—and if there’s something you never regret during your childhood, it’s those times where you’d ignore the teasing of having “no dad to dance with” from your childhood bullies because you were more than content with the superwoman who raised you anyway.

-

If there was someone in your childhood other than your mom who never hesitated to hold your hands—it was the boy who lived right down the street: Iwaizumi Hajime.

“He looks a little scruffy,” your mom used to tell you and you’d shrug at her words because to ten year old you, she _did_ have a point. Boys were icky.

His family didn’t move in your street until you turned ten years old, but according to the Oikawa family who lived next door—the Iwaizumi family had already been one of their long term friends. Tooru, the pretty boy who was your next door neighbor and often brought you the Christmas cookies you’ve come to love every December didn’t hesitate to knock on your door and ask your mom for permission to bring you out and play.

Tooru was _okay,_ you thought; he had nice hair and a pretty smile even though he wore _alien t-shirts_ every chance he could get. But, he was always kind enough to remember that you preferred almonds in your cookies instead of the cashews the recipe called for. So when your mother looked at you for your answer, you nodded shyly before running to your room to grab the jacket and scarf she reminded you to wear. The chill from autumn’s air _has_ been settling in the region lately, so you let her wrap the scarf around you tightly before you left.

She did the same for both Tooru and his mystery friend, and you could only nod proudly when Tooru introduced his friend to your mother with, “ _This is (l/n)-san, she’s the nicest auntie here!”_

You don’t notice the boy who walks quietly beside Tooru until the three of you reach the park. When you do _finally_ notice him, you subconsciously find yourself moving a little closer to Tooru, your puffy cheeks hidden in the layers your scarf buried you in.

“Oh!” Tooru suddenly exclaims like he just had an epiphany.

“(Y/n),” he says as he turns to you and grabs the sleeve of your jacket, “—this is Iwa-chan. My _bestest_ friend!”

 _Iwa-chan,_ the boy introduced to you peeks at you from Tooru’s left side and puffs his cheeks, “My name is Iwaizumi Hajime, nice to meet you.”

“Hello, I’m (y/n),” you reply and tentatively hold your hand out as an offer for him to shake, “nice to meet you Iwaizumi-san.”

His cheeks turn red at your words and you fight the urge to laugh at how silly it looks with his pout when he says, “You can call me Hajime. Nice to meet you too.”

Beside you, Tooru must have thought that his friend was taking _too_ long to respond because he sighs loudly and grabs Hajime’s hand and clasps it on yours. “ _Iwa-chan_ , you’re supposed to shake her hand! _Not stare._ ”

The red tinting his cheeks turn into a couple shades darker as he shakes your hand and turns his head to the side after muttering something along the lines of, “ _Baka-kawa.”_

You smile at him when he faces you, and then smile even wider when the blush on his cheeks turn _even_ redder. Maybe it’s just the cold air, you think, but none the less it suited him.

His hair was a little scruffy and he liked to wear _Godzilla_ t-shirts under his jackets, but his cheeks blushed a pretty shade of red when you smiled at him so when your mom asks how your day with Tooru and the new neighbor went, you smile at her and say, “Mama I made a new friend!”

Hajime seemed nice, you suppose.

-

And you’re right because Hajime was always kind; he smiled in a way that had you smiling along with him in mere seconds. Though he was a little rougher with Tooru, Hajime always made it his mission to make sure he held your hand— _if you needed it—_ when you needed to jump down a big step; the ever present blush on his cheeks when you’d beam at him stayed regardless of whatever season so you suppose you can’t blame it on the cold air anymore.

During your summer breaks, the three of you would spend the afternoons in your mother’s backyard sipping iced tea and catching cicadas. Tooru, along with you, would whine about how _gross_ bugs were but you’d sooner relent than him when a pout began to form on Hajime’s face.

“You don’t have to,” Hajime says and takes a seat next to you on the swing next to the rosebushes. Tooru, from a far would yell triumphantly before tossing the volleyball he’d brought with him from home again. You, on the other hand could _never_ have it in you to see Hajime upset so you’d pick up one of the three nets he’d brought with him and nod towards the garden.

“It’s okay!” you say and offer him a sweet smile when he’d look up, “as long as you keep the worms away from me then it’s okay!”

“I’ll keep them away,” he replies suddenly looking excited. Hajime jumps from the swings to grab another net and tugs at your hand to run towards the garden; he chooses to ignore the look on Tooru’s face when the latter shoots him a knowing smirk.

Bugs were _never_ your thing and there was also never a day where you thought you’d be out in the garden running hand in hand with a boy trying to catch cicadas on a summer afternoon—when you’d much prefer to be sitting in a picnic blanket with the family dog who always nudged your hand for belly rubs. But then again, when you see Hajime, the kind boy with the infectious smile who always held your hand when you crossed the street or jumped from big steps, beam at you with his laughs ringing in the air—you conclude that it can’t be so bad after all.

When the sun would set and the three of you would let go of all the cicadas you caught, your mom would sit the three of you down for dinner and talk about your days.

 _“Ah, youth,”_ your mother would comment and you’d nod along, smiling because if _this_ is what she meant by the beauty of youth—then you don’t ever want to let this go. If youth meant summer afternoons spent catching cicadas, festivals in the autumn, hot cocoas in winter, and picnics in the spring with Hajime and Tooru then you decided you _really_ don’t want to let it go.

You think that especially when you look at the table across you as you smile at Tooru shoveling his dinner down and smiling at your mom because she was the _bestest_ cook ever and laugh when Hajime’s always the one offering to pass the salt or the dish your mother asked for.

“Haji is really smart, mama,” you say looking up at the woman seated next to you and Tooru would whole heartedly agree then mutter something about “ _Iwa-chan”_ being _really_ good at arm wrestling. Hajime would flush with the familiar shade of red you’ve grown accustomed to at Tooru’s comment but tell your mother a polite _thank you_ when she’d clap her hands together and agree with Tooru’s compliment.

That night when your mother tucked you in for the night and moved to turn off the lights in the bedroom, she tells you that Hajime and Tooru are nice boys and that she’s glad you befriended the both of them.

You tell her goodnight and smile into your covers, feeling warm at the thought of your mother’s words, Tooru’s laughter, and Hajime’s kind smile.

-

High school was a strange time for the three of you.

Strange, in the sense that even though the three of you maintained the closeness of the friendship you’ve shared since childhood—certain things factored in the evident shift in _some_ relationships.

Tooru was one example.

You would give up an _arm_ for him in a heartbeat if it meant it would save his life, but at the same time, there are some moments where you wouldn’t hesitate to rip off _his_ arm just to get him to shut up.

He’s always been perceptive, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise when he came to your house one day, plopped himself on the beanbag he claimed to be “his spot” at the corner of your desk, look you dead in the eye, and declare, “You have the _hots_ for Iwa-chan don’t you?”

Internally, you wince at the statement but outwardly maintain the air of nonchalance you’ve mastered over the years. Tapping your pen on Tooru’s forehead, you click your tongue, “If you don’t finish your essay by today, I’m not gonna edit it for you.”

“You’re changing the topic, (y/n),” Tooru quips and if the conversation was about something different, you’d smile at the sing-song tone he was using.

“Changing _what?_ ” You ask.

“ _(Y/n),”_ Tooru replies, dragging out the last syllable of your name, “—you’re _so_ obvious, even Makki and Mattsun could tell.”

“Could tell what?” comes Hajime’s voice from the doorway.

You let out a sigh because in a way you’re thankful for Hajime’s impeccable timing in entering your room. You turn your head and glance at him from your desk, offering him a lazy wave as a greeting.

“ _Iwa-chan!”_ Tooru exclaims and scrambles on the beanbag to sit up properly. “How much have you heard?”

“Were you talking about something important?” Hajime asks with a flat tone as he sits on your bed and pulls out his laptop.

“Your mom asked me and Oikawa to stay for dinner tonight, by the way. That cool with you?” he asks.

You look at him, the expression on your face quizzical, “Haji, you guys always stay for dinner. Mama and I love having you two around.”

From your peripheral vision, you could see Tooru look between you and Hajime back and forth and for once you’re glad he chose to stay silent.

But then when a familiar tinge of red falls on Hajime’s cheeks and you smile fondly at him, Tooru suddenly hollers, “(Y/n), _that’s_ what I mean. You _totally_ have the hots for Iwa-chan!”

Hajime’s eyes widen as you slap a hand over your face.

Today was one of the days where you decide you want to rip Tooru’s arm off.

-

Dinner later that night was, to put it bluntly, _awkward._

You figured your mom must have already read the atmosphere by now but as of the moment all you could really do was shoot glares towards Tooru from across the table. Usually, the seating arrangement would be like this: you sat next to your mom, Tooru right across you, and Hajime diagonal from you.

Tonight, Tooru decided that it was time to “switch things up” and traded seats with Hajime.

“Ahh, this feels nice,” he says as he sits in the chair inches away from the chair where he sat for _years._

“Boys,” your mother begins, “I heard you both got into the volleyball team.”

Tooru beams at her through a mouthful of pasta. “ _Yeth!”_ he chimes and Hajime elbows him on the side reminding him to eat properly before responding. You, along with your mother give a soft laugh at their interaction.

“How are you three liking high school so far? I expect the two of you to get rid of any boys who have bad intentions towards (y/n),” your mother says as she sips on her wine. Internally, you groan, because this was a conversation you would _much_ prefer to not have. _Especially_ in front of Tooru, you decide when he grins with an undertone of something you could only guess was anything but good. You shoot him a warning look; Tooru decides it’s a good day to ignore you.

Over the years, you made your appreciation known towards Hajime’s _amazing_ timing. It was like he had a sixth sense when it came to either you, Tooru, or the _both_ of you simultaneously. He had always managed to round the corner right as the passing university boys would spot you alone by the convenience store, catch Tooru before he did anything too drastic whenever he blamed himself a little _too_ harshly for a loss from a particularly bad game, or like earlier that night—walk into a room interrupting a conversation you would rather avoid altogether.

This current situation was not one of those times.

Hajime took a bite. Your eyes were still locked on Tooru who did _everything_ but look in your direction.

“I don’t think that’s a problem, (L/n)-san,” he said and leaned forward. Your mother next to you raised an eyebrow in question and muttered an, “ _oh?”_

Hajime took another bite, still oblivious to the current conversation. You still looked at Tooru who smiled at you in a way that had you gripping the fork in your hand a _little_ tighter.

“No scary boys around (y/n), at all! Isn’t that right, Iwa-chan?” Tooru exclaims and looks at his best friend next to him who was still engrossed in his plate of food. You hold your breath looking at Hajime as you wait for his response.

“Huh? Yeah. Anyway, this new recipe is really good (l/n)-san,” he finally says and nods towards your mother. Tooru clasps his hands together, smiling.

“ _Personally,_ ” Tooru begins, “I think Iwa-chan and (y/n) would be the most perfect couple!”

You run your hands over your face, already feeling the heat crawling up your neck. Feeling your mother’s stare you let out a sigh and face her. “Mom-“

“Hajime! That’s great! I was wondering when the two of you would get together, it’s literally been _years._ ”

You stare at her. Hajime stares at her; pasta sauce is smeared on the corner of his lips.

“I _know_ , imagine being the third wheel this whole time!” Tooru comments.

-

“Hajime’s a nice boy,” your mother tells you as you join her in the living room after Tooru and Hajime returned home.

“We’re not, a thing, mom,” you say despite her laughing at your tone.

“I didn’t say you two were a thing.”

You open your mouth, but eventually close it when you come short of a response. She had a point.

“ _Mom,”_ you groan, “Haji is nice. Tooru is nice. _Both of them are nice.”_

“I know that, (y/n), you’re just being defensive now,” she laughs and you can’t find a retort so you huff in response.

When the room is dips into silence, you grab the familiar green blanket folded on the corner of the couch and take a seat next to her. She looks at you when you lean against her shoulder and drape the blanket over the two of you.

“(Y/n),” your mother says softly.

“Yeah?” you respond, looking up to catch her gaze—the kind where it’s steady and soft.

“Never lose yourself if you decide to give your heart to someone. I raised you well enough and no boy should ever make you feel like you’re taking two steps back,” you know she doesn’t say it to spite Hajime, but the message and advice in her words reach you anyway.

“Never in a million years.”

-

You know your mother means well because everything she’s done so far was _because_ it was for your sake. Her credit of being a good mom was well deserved: a full time nurse _and_ a full time mother wasn’t an easy feat but she did it—and not a day goes by where you felt like you had to fight for her time.

And because of that, you knew in your heart that Hajime knew the both of you enough to understand the dynamic you had with her; for that, you were always thankful.

True to Tooru’s words, it only took the both of you six more months of back and forth bickering in your room before you eventually built up enough courage to stand in front of Hajime with your confession written neatly in jet black ink on paper tucked inside the pink envelope Tooru had _demanded_ you to use.

He was quiet, and staring at you long enough for your cheeks to turn as pink as the envelope you were holding that it had you beginning to wrack your brain for excuses to turn and walk in the opposite direction. Only, when you looked up, cheeks flushed and the “ _Sorry I think I have to be home early to put my fish to sleep,”_ at the tip of your tongue—you stop because Hajime’s looking at anywhere _but_ you and because his entire face is red.

You still have the envelope awkwardly stretched out towards him so when you move in attempt to retract it, his hands are suddenly clasped over your wrists and he’s looking at you, red face and all, saying, “W-wait—“

The both of you must have been quite the spectacle for the way you’re staring at each other, red faced, and waiting for the other to begin speaking because you could _definitely_ make out Takahiro and Issei’s snorting from some feet away.

“—shit,” Hajime continues and the way he’s still staying silent and going back to avoiding your gaze has you tugging your wrists out of his hold and sheepishly telling him, “Sorry, this is a little awkward isn’t it?”

You’re standing in front of Hajime with your hands holding the letter behind your back and an awkward smile on your face.

“(Y/n), this is really weird—“ he begins and you’re shaking your head automatically at his attempt to soften the blow by waving your arms— _and the letter_ —in front of him saying, “Haji! No! It’s okay you don’t have to say anything, this was a really bad idea—“

“No, I mean—“ he cuts you off then pauses as he’s sifting through the contents of his bag and pulling out a slightly crumpled envelope, the color a disturbingly identical to your own.

You look at Hajime. Hajime looks at you, at his envelope, then towards yours that paused with your hand midair. Issei and Takahiro’s laughter can be heard even _louder_ from the background when Hajime runs his hands over his face and exclaims,

“Oikawa you _son of a bitch.”_

-

Two years and some months ago, Oikawa Tooru—the self-proclaimed “ _love guru”_ between you and Hajime had declared to have pulled off his “ _greatest plan.”_

Apparently, the original plan called for _only_ you to confess to Hajime via the classic love letter—but Issei and Takahiro had thought that the shits and giggles were worth to have _both_ of you confess to each other at the same time instead.

Tooru always retells the story in the fashion where he leaves out Issei and Hiro’s names out of the credits. On the contrary, you and Hajime don’t have in in you to react much.

In the beginning, Hajime the friend held your hand through _many_ of your highs and lows.

From age ten, he’d always make sure to hold your hand when you’re jumping from steps a little too far for your liking. At twelve, he’s holding your hand as he leads you away from the worms that found its way near the picnic blanket. At fifteen, when the two of you accidentally confessed to each other thanks to your friends’ schemes, he held your hand as he pulled you in the direction opposite of Tooru yelling, “ _Iwa-chan, don’t forget I’m the best wingman!”_

Hajime, the boyfriend, had continued to hold your hand as well as share a multitude of your first throughout the years.

Your first date where he’d always let you walk on the correct side of the sidewalk, and make sure to squeeze your hand whenever the two of you would pass by a group of boys who let their stare linger. Your first kiss—a quick peck after a game where he’d rushed to you, lifting you up and planting a kiss on your lips before either of you could even process what was happening.

A reassuring hand on your back in the train ride during rush hour, kisses on your knuckles when he thought no one was around in quiet libraries, and your favorite: the feel of his thumbs tracing idle circles on the back of your hand when you’re watching him review the game you recorded earlier.

You were each other’s first “ _I love you,”_ when you’re seventeen, which was said in the hours between the day and night on your walk home down a quiet street you’ve skipped, ran, and biked across countless of times. You heard it break the silence before you said it with your own lips, because the way Hajime said it was like he was just talking about the weather that day.

When the two of you stop in front of your house and Hajime’s facing you, he’s smiling in the way that has _you_ blushing instead of him this time and he’s looping your scarf even snugger around your neck after muttering some comment about how cold it was that day.

“Haji, did you just tell me you love me?” you ask him when he’s zipped up your jacket and you’re peeking at him under the various layers of the scarf he secured around you.

“Yeah, of course, I love you.”

“This is the first time you’re telling me that,” you say with an almost bashful expression and your eyes are cast down so you don’t end up seeing Hajime’s eyes widen at the realization dawning on him.

“(Y/n), shit—“

“I love you too, Haji,” you cut him off and even if the expression in his face is still a little apologetic at the lack of climax of your first exchange of _I love yous_ , he’s holding your hands and pulling you flush against him in an embrace, his proclamation of more _“I love yous”_ fluttering against your ear in warm breaths.

You think about it sometime later when you’re clearing up the plates on the table from dinner and you ask your mom, “ _how do you know when it’s right to tell someone I love you?”_ and she looks at you with an expression that says she knows _exactly_ what you’re talking about but humors your attempt at nonchalance as she replies with, “ _It just slips out as if you’re talking about the weather.”_

And the way she says it has the second thoughts just automatically leaving your head. You tell her _“I love you_ ,” in the mornings before she leaves for work and you don’t really think about it—not because it’s a passing comment, but because you just simply _love_ her.

The feeling’s there because what you feel in the moment is as genuine as it can get, so when you think about Hajime from seven years ago who blushed red when you shook his hand and the Hajime seven hours ago who told you he loved you like he was talking about the weather—everything dawns on you in the way that feels right. No second thoughts, deep analysis, or euphoric moment.

_> > **to** hajibug:_

_> > **23:50:** i love you _

-

 ** _In college_** you decided to pursue music as a career choice. Music was one of the many things you and your mother had bonded over but watching you play in first chair always gave you the best view of her beaming from the audience.

Whenever somebody asked you why you decided to pursue a career in the field as vague and competitive as music—for a long time you fumbled with your words as you struggled to piece together a _coherent_ enough sentence that would make it seem like you were chasing something for a “ _deeper”_ reason. Though, the truth is—you just happen to enjoy it.

The way the shoulder rest snapped perfectly in place with the violin, the weight of the bow in your hand, the smell of rosin during practice, the tuning before the concert started before hearing the eventual mess mold together into one harmony—you loved every second of it.

On the final concert of your first year in college, a week before Hajime’s move to California you stood in the orchestra room reading a text from your mother saying that she couldn’t make it this time because of a doctor’s appointment running later than usual.

You still sat in the first chair of the first violins section and even though you would have loved nothing more than to see her smile at you from the crowd—it was in the coda of the final song where your eye finally catches Hajime watching you from her seat. When the violins put their instruments down in the measures of rests, you glance over to look at Hajime while your toe continued to tap the counts remaining until you’d play again.

You bite back a smile because he looked a little uncomfortable from the high collar of the suit he put on. _Tooru’s probably the mastermind,_ your thoughts chime in as you smile and tuck the violin back in between your chin and shoulder, your rosin covered bow hovering over the E string.

And when the final count of the rests came and went, you could only smile as you see Hajime physically hold his breath as the violins amplified the crescendo of the climax.

-

It was later that night when you finally made it home that you realize that perhaps your favorite part of the song was when you felt the emphasis of the dynamics in the pieces you played.

The moment of absolute silence as the conductor draws everyone’s attention to the tip of the baton.

_“(Y/n),” your mother starts and your eyes lock on the slight tremble in her hands._

The seemingly collective sharp breath everyone takes when the tip of the baton begins to signal the final counts until the start. Your fingers pressed on the first note as your bow hovers over the string.

_“What’s wrong?” you ask but you let your fingers only ghost on her hands when she holds her silence, refusing to meet your eyes._

Sometimes it begins with a quiet note—and you smile at those because it sounds like a whisper despite it ringing in the auditorium.

 _“I’m sick,”_ _she says and what she says doesn’t register in your head._

Other times, the first note comes in _forte_ and leaves everyone in a resonating silence while the following notes interlace and begin to tell the story.

_“I have cancer, (y/n),” she tells you again, louder this time and her sobs echo so loud in the silence of the house that it suddenly makes you want to throw your hands over your ears._

The conductor is waving the baton; you’re closing your eyes as you mold yourself with the music and focus on nothing but your fingers flying across the fingerboard and making sure the timing of your bow matches the tap of the rhythm set.

_“Mom, you’ll be fine right?” comes your assurance in question and she’s not answering because she’s crying harder._

First position to third, then fourth, then something else you don’t quite remember as the pressure from your bow presses harder and harder on the strings to climb with the crescendo the orchestra is rising to.

_She looks at you, glassy eyes and trembling lips, then holds your face in between warm hands as she presses her forehead against yours._

Then as the baton drops and the crescendo overflows—the air around the room instantly changes. The shoulders relax and the movement of the bow shift from staccato to legato as the music continues to flow.

_“I’m scared to leave you alone,” she finally admits and you finally break down and cry with her because you realize you have no one but each other._

_You cry because she’s crying at the thought of leaving you alone when she never cried at all the times your father chose another family over her._

And as the music decrescendos into the whispers of _pianissimo_ , you close your eyes as the gentle sway eventually lulls to a stop.

_It’s half past ten and you’re still in your formal wear, but your mom’s fast asleep on the couch. The air from the AC brings you to a light shiver so you shuffle closer and pull the blankets tighter around her frame._

The last note drops and resonates in an almost infinite echo. Your eyes snap back open you feel yourself exhale.

For a moment the auditorium is in silence.

_You sit on the floor next to her and listen to the sounds of steady breathing. You could pretend it was just another movie night where she fell asleep on the couch, but the telltale tracks of tears are on her cheeks and you hear her sniffling from time to time so you sigh instead._

Then, the audience erupts in an applause.

_In your room, you put your palm over your mouth and begin to cry again._

-

 _“I love you so much,”_ is what Hajime said two years down the road when he decided to move to California to finish his studies.

First, he’d made a stop at your home and sat with your mother over breakfast as she wished him well on his new adventure. By the time he was at the door, it was the first time you saw Hajime cry for and _with_ her when she wraps him in a scarf she knitted just for him. You watch softly, as he wraps her in a hug and parts with a promise to always take care of you despite the distance and wishes for her healing.

You’re standing at the border of the gate only Hajime can cross where he’s wrapped you in a hug with his chin resting on your head.

“I love you so much,” he says and you nod your head against his chest. He’s saying it as naturally as he always has and your reply is as immediate and natural when you say, “I love you too, Haji. So much.”

“(Y/n),” he starts when he pulls away from you and looks you in the eye; he’s suddenly serious and you’re afraid.

“If you ever feel like you don’t want to keep doing this, then we can take a break.”

Your brows pinch together as you reply, “Why would I want to break up with you?”

“I’m not saying we _will_ , I just don’t want you to shoulder too much because I know how much you’re hurting right now,” Hajime explains, and his eyes are as genuine as the tone of his voice.

“ _Haji_ —“

“I believe in you, though, just—“ he pauses and his eyes soften before he continues, “take things one day at a time and remember that I’m here loving you every day, okay?”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” he finishes and you only nod at his words because the fact that you’re going to miss him _really_ begins to hit you. Hajime’s looking at you in the tender way where you know _he_ knows you’re about to cry because he pulls you in another embrace before kissing the top of your head as he murmurs his parting _I love you_ in the quiet tone only you can hear.

When Hajime crosses the gate and turns the corner, you can’t help but bite your lip to keep from crying. Only a couple more years. You could take it.

-

It’s in the next eight months where you realize that while Iwaizumi Hajime shared your first love—he was also your first heartbreak.

They always said that long distance was difficult and the fact that you and Hajime were even trying was commendable enough. But that was the problem— _commendable_ sounded like you were in the relationship for the sake of a prize. Like you were suffering through the _now_ for a prize. Like the good part was only a one-time thing reserved at the end.

It felt wrong, and looking back at it now—perhaps that’s where the downfall began.

As time passed, your mom’s illness worsened. Cancer was ugly and it let itself be known in as many ways as it could. Time and time again, you’d watch her hair fall in strands, then clumps, until she eventually decided to shave it off for good. She smiled at you and you don’t hear her tell you, _“It’s okay,”_ over the buzz of the razor. You don’t think you have the heart to listen to the quiver of her voice that you know is present with her words, so you suppose the loud buzz worked out in the end.

What broke your heart the most was seeing her excitement when her hair grew back after a pause in her treatment—only for her to sit down and tell you that she’s _“okay”_ when you’re shaving off sections of her hair again.

You didn’t let her see you cry because you wanted to be as strong as she was in this; because you _knew_ the both of you broke down within enclosed walls away from each other. Though every time you were face to face—the front was always back up. And the front was _flawless_ ; like the edges of a chipped sword finally smoothened back into a blade. But at the same time, _flawed_ ; because like the sword—the sharpness _always_ kills.

It was unconventional, but it worked. The momentary sigh of relief was still moments of relief at the end of the day.

Hajime, on the other hand thought differently though. The second you’d answer his call request on particularly off days, he’d tell you to cry. And you would; fat drops of tears rolling down almost as soon as he finished his sentence.

Then only a year of loving each other through a computer screen passed before you realized he became your pillar at the same time you began hardening.

 _“Never lose yourself in the pursuit of someone or something,”_ are the words from your mother you consciously make an effort to tell yourself everyday even as you sit in with your phone in hand waiting for the call Hajime promised you early this morning.

And you’re well aware you’ve developed an unhealthy habit as you’re lying in bed, fighting sleep with the time on the clock nearing 4am _still_ waiting for Hajime’s call. It wasn’t the first time he missed a promised phone call—and you weren’t mad because you _understand_ that he has as much of a schedule as you do and that time difference was a wedge the two of you needed to work with.

 _But still,_ you think, then sigh when you put your arm over your eyes as the clock clicks to 04:07AM beside you, _this fucking sucks._

You know Hajime will text you an apology when it’s seven am for you and late at night for him, but you put your phone’s ringer on silent to convince yourself that you’re _fine_ and you’re not _dependent_ on his presence at all. That you’re handling yourself _just fine_ and that the anxiety you have every time your mother comes back home from a checkup is something you can deal with by yourself. 

You shut your eyes when the dull ache in your chest begins to grow sharper as your thoughts shift from school, to your mom’s illness, to _Hajime,_ and to the fact that you want to cry at the heaviness of _everything_.

And the frustration is eating you alive because you _hate_ feeling this helpless. Not when your mother taught you nothing but how to be strong your whole life. Not when all you _should_ know is how to stand on your own two feet despite whatever the situation life throws at you.

So when the morning comes and you wake up to a plethora of Hajime’s missed calls and frantic texts asking if you’re okay—you text him an assurance that you’re fine and that he shouldn’t worry about it.

You face the day with everything you feel pushed to the back of your mind. You face the mirror and tell yourself that you’re _fine._

-

Hanamaki’s a good friend, and _a lot_ smarter than you give him credit for.

It didn’t fly past him when you left for phone on silent or chose to spend your break with him or Mattsun when you usually would utilize that time for Hajime. But at the same time, he noticed you spacing out in conversations a little more than usual, reject any plans they invited you in, and his least favorite—see you break down in the practice room when you thought no one was around.

Neither he nor Issei chose to tell Hajime _or you_ about it; he could never understand what you were going through—but he understood that the way someone heals differs from person to person.

It took about a few more months of Hajime’s schedule piling up and your silent breakdowns for the both of you to finally snap and confront one another.

It started with Hajime telling you a round of an apology, “I’m sorry, I promise I’ll call you on time—I just,”

“—shit everything’s just _crazy_. I’m sorry, babe.”

Then you nod and absent mindedly twirl one strand of your hand as you force his apology in one ear and out the other. You were _fine_. You’re handling things _well._ You _didn’t_ need Hajime as a support system, so you reply, “It’s fine. I got this.”

And you like to think it was going well, but he asks, _“How’s your mom doing?”_ and your hands are suddenly gripping the edge of the table (where you _know_ he can’t see) tight. You didn’t tell him that she cried from the results when she came home earlier and waved you off when you stood up to help her balance herself. That thirty minutes ago you could hear her yell at your father over the phone about something she _didn’t_ tell you about and that at the moment, you’re thankful for the way your fingers were digging into your skin because it’s helping you re shift your focus into anything _but_ what was going on.

Hajime’s not looking at you because he’s looking at the report he was typing on his laptop instead. So first, you hype yourself up by thinking about how you don’t _need_ anyone to push you through things and that how you’re handling yourself and the situation was _more than fine_ , then, you answer,

“She’s okay, too.”

You try to ignore how gritty it sounded; Hajime doesn’t seem to notice either.

You’re quiet after that and Hajime must have thought it was odd because he pauses his work to look at you and ask, “Are you okay?”

And he says it with such a gentle tone that you suddenly want to crumble and tell him about the heaviness that hasn’t left you since the day your mom began slipping. But a knock from Hajime’s door and a distant call of his name snaps you out of those thoughts. Hajime, on the other hand, ignores them and asks you the question again, which you wave off this time with a quick, “It’s okay you can call me when you’re done.”

He’s hesitant when he leaves and he shoots you a text seconds after his face leaves the screen but you don’t reply; you spend the rest of the night with your face pressed against the pillow while you will yourself to believe that _you,_ alone, have everything under control.

And, really, you _should_ have left it to end like that.

But you don’t; because when morning comes and you wake up feeling _heavy_ , you’re left in a haze where everything feels muddled. And the feeling of _screaming_ hits you _so fast_ and _so hard_ that the dam just _breaks._

It’s seven am and you’re crying for reasons you can’t find a starting point to. The kind of cry where every heave _hurts_ and makes you ball your fists because of an unsourced anger. It’s disorienting and frustrating because you’re not mad at specifically _anything_ —but at the same time, _everything_ feels like its swallowing you whole again. You wish you could blank out like the time she told you she was sick—even if it meant moving through your day hyper aware of your movements. But you _can’t_ , because it’s one of those days where the heaviness just sits on your chest and forces you to face the fact that _it hurts._

And you always say _“it”_ because you don’t _know_ where to begin. Because you _never_ began; never sat down and looked at your reflection in the eye and asked yourself, “ _what was wrong_?”

Because you’re _fine._

Everything’s _fine._

It’s _still_ fine because when your phone is ringing, you answer with a fresh face and a smooth, _hello._

Hajime greets you like usual, but then settles into a background that _isn’t._

You don’t really care.

He asks you how you’ve slept, and you nod once as a reply. He’s chuckling and says something about you looking _cute_ cuddled up in bed, still half asleep so you nod again to go along with his story. Underneath the sheets, you’re fisting the blankets as you count each breath you’ve inhaled and exhaled as Hajime begins to talk about his day.

Then someone, who you can’t recall you know, sits next to him with an arm casually draped over his shoulder and pushes her face near his as _she_ waves a hello. Usually, you’re not much of the jealous type so something like that shouldn’t even be a red flag for you. Hajime was a friendly person all around, and time and time again he’s explained how different the American culture was from home.

Given that fact, on a normal situation it would have been fine. Understandable, even.

But before you could even begin smooth your thoughts back to rationality, you explode. Hajime’s facing away from you in a conversation where he can’t see, so you suppose that could have been a good thing.

Then, your anger comes out.

 ** _First, it trickles_** ; you stay silent and opt to stare at him, seething when he finally begins a conversation. Hajime’s eyebrows shoot up just like that and he bids his friend a quick _goodbye_ before rushing into an empty room.

 ** _Second, it pools._** You tell him a series of things you don’t even think makes sense, but from the way his face morphs into a grimace—it wouldn’t take much to conclude that what you said was something _ugly_.

 ** _Third, you’re wading in waist deep._** You’re sitting up and pointing at him, bringing up a photo you saw of him with his arms hung over someone’s shoulder. A classmate, you concluded last week; a _lover_ , you accuse him of having in the moment.

 ** _Fourth, Hajime rushes to keep you from going in further._** He doesn’t feed into your anger and instead tells you to take a deep breath before talking to him. And for a second, you relent and listen. He explains that she’s a classmate from his biology class and that you’re just overreacting over something that shouldn’t even be an issue.

 ** _Fifth, comes the struggle._** Your anger flares at his words and everything you’ve felt and pushed underwater suddenly bobs to the surface. Hajime wasn’t at fault, and you _know_ that, but he’s huffing in a way that tells you he’s inches past exhausted and it does nothing to quell your outburst.

“Maybe what you should do is listen to yourself and calm the fuck down,” is what he tells you as you flinch at his tone.

“Well, I’m _sorry,_ for just wanting to _talk_ to you Hajime,” is what you say as retaliation. Hajime’s hand that instantly flies up to soothe his temple doesn’t fly past you.

“We _are_ talking, (y/n). Why are you trying to make me apologize for something I didn’t even _do?_ ”

“Why can’t _you_ understand my point? This is exhausting, Hajime.”

“I _told_ you from the _beginning._ If you didn’t want to keep doing this then we stop,” he retorts, anger steadily rising.

“You’re making it sound like you’re the one wanting to stop this,” you bite back.

“I _don’t._ But it’s like _every time_ we talk nowadays it’s like you’re being _too_ much, this doesn’t seem like you anymore,” Hajime finishes.

And as the silence settles, everything clicks. You’ve been too dependent, and he feels the same way. He’s right, this _isn’t_ you at all. You shouldn’t need to cling to him to for crumbs of healing; because you’re _more_ than fine.

 _Have been_ more than fine, really; so you blank and reply, “You’re right, sorry about that.”

He looks at you, confused, before the silence envelops the two of you again. You allow it to stay this time.

“Maybe we should take a break, (y/n). Just some time to cool off; I feel like we’re just too overloaded right now.”

“We should,” you reply, expression unfazed as you cut the call.

 ** _The sixth, is where you allow the anger to stay instead of recede._** Your mother asks you how you’re feeling and you’re quick to answer that you’re okay.

Hajime doesn’t text you until an hour later, wanting to talk. You set your phone to silent.

“What made you decide to not get back together with dad?” you ask her when she’s quiet in front of you. Your mother looks at you for a while before she pieces the red eyes and silent phone together, then tells you, “I loved myself more.”

You nod, conflicted. Her eyes were as red as yours and you heard her weeping his name just the night before and she knows you’re aware. Your phone vibrates on the table again and you miss the way her eyes flicker to the device momentarily before focusing them back at you.

Both of you know, but neither of you ask.

“Never lose yourself, right?” you say quietly and she gives you a solid nod as she pours you a cup of coffee.

You never really liked coffee; then again, you never really liked the reality either.

But you take the mug and gulp in the bitterness anyway.

 ** _Then finally, the seventh is where you succumb under its waves._** Hajime calls you later that night and you answer, expression honed into an almost natural state of indifference. He looks a little worse than you, but you ignore that.

“Is this it?” he asks and you nod curtly once, your fingernails already digging into your palms under the table.

“Are we going to hate each other?” Hajime asks you again and you sigh.

“I don’t have it in me to ever hate you, Haji,” you answer, truthfully and he gives you a halfhearted smile.

“I love you,” he says like he’s just talking about the weather, and stays on the line for a few seconds more before he eventually takes your silence as a response.

 _“I love you, too,”_ is what almost comes out of your mouth like second nature, but you bite your tongue anyway. 

He can’t hurt you first this way.

-

 **Sakusa Kiyoomi** didn’t really root himself in your life until nine months after your break up with Hajime. Graduation came and went like the unfurling of a leaf, and before you knew it, you’re suddenly in the real world.

Before that, you only knew him as the first chair cellist who you _always_ accidentally locked eyes with in every concert you managed to snag the first chair spot in the first violin’s section.

Bumping into him during morning practice first led to string quartets, then duets during concerts, shared practice rooms—until eventually, he asked you out on a date.

He inserted the question in the conversation so naturally, too. After putting away the music stands, then shoving (in contrast to him _neatly_ arranging) the sheet music into your folder—you were halfway done with loosening your bow when he asked, “ _Do you wanna get dinner later?”_ out of the blue.

To others who may have listened in to the conversation, it sounded like a natural invitation between friends, and Kiyoomi must have realized that because he was quick to face you after zipping up the case of his cello, and add, “ _—I meant dinner with me.”_

You were still holding your bow and staring at him stare at you, so he filled the silence with, “ _Like a date. I’m asking you out on a date, (y/n).”_

The two of you never really initiated anything outside the relationship between music partners, and the occasional friendly outing—but it had _always_ been with others. Looking at him, you admit Sakusa Kiyoomi was a man who mastered hygiene. Which was _always_ a bonus in your book. But you think back to Hajime for a second, then click your tongue quietly because you realize you _shouldn’t_ be thinking about him when someone else was asking you out.

But you sigh and still offer him a smile when you reply, “Sorry I gotta watch my mom tonight. She’s not feeling well.”

Kiyoomi nods, and his eyebrows shoot up like he remembered something. “I heard your mom was sick? I’m sorry if I’m prying.”

You nod sharply once before internally groaning then thinking about how to steer the conversation away from the oncoming “ _I’m sorrys”,_ “ _It must be so tough,”_ or any sympathetic comments of the like.

But Kiyoomi only nods in understanding, briefly turning back to loop his arms through the case, then looking back at you again saying, “Ah. Understandable. My grandmother had cancer and my mom made her this soup that helped with the aching; I can give you the recipe for it.”

Your eyes shoot up at his response and the rehearsed response of, “ _I have no choice but to be tough for her. It’s okay, though,”_ dies in your mouth so you close it again and only nod a _yes._

Kiyoomi turns to open the door once you had your own violin set inside and stands by the opening of the door to let you out first. You smile; he was mostly reserved, but still a gentleman.

“(Y/n),” he begins when the two of you walk side by side in the quiet morning hallway. “I know you don’t want to hear the pity comments, but I just wanna put it out there that you’re doing well.”

Your steps halt with his when you reach the end of the hallway where the flooring splits into two different directions but you face him, the thrumming of your heart feeling making you a little more choked up than you expected and tell him an honest _thank you._

He lifts his right hand as a goodbye while he shoves the other in his pocket after he settles his mask in place, then turns to walk on the opposite direction.

“Sakusa-san!” you call out and he stops a few meters in front of you to turn back in your direction again.

“Dinner!” you call out again, “this weekend!”

You know your cheeks are a little more red than you would have liked and you’re more than aware of how white your knuckles must be from grasping the straps of your case, but you ignore that and add anyway, “As a date.”

The mask covering the lower half of his face obscures the expression he has but you notice the miniscule crinkle on the corner of his eyes when he laughs and replies, “Can you say that a little louder? I can’t hear.”

You huff and action to turn around because the heat on your face was getting a _little_ too uncomfortable, but you hear him say, “It’s a date!” so you nod awkwardly in confirmation before turning your back and walking the opposite way.

You can imagine the look he has on his face and just how much amusement he’s gotten from the interaction but before you walk too far you hear, “Just call me Kiyoomi,” from him behind you.

You smile and feel as if you’re flipping into the first page of a new chapter.

**-**

In contrast to the push and pull energy you felt with Hajime, after almost being in a relationship with Kiyoomi for a year, things felt easy.

Communication between the two of you didn’t feel like unraveling codes; _plus_ , being in the same department also meant your schedules mostly linked up. Though, personally, your favorite part was that he was never _too_ pushy with the things you wanted to deal with alone.

He knew not to pry when you walked in the practice hall with bags under your eyes holding a cup of coffee you swore to heaven and back you detested drinking; you always saw a parcel of your comfort snack with a note laid beside your violin case in the locker room, though.

And when he ate dinner at your house, he also kept his comments to himself and never let his eyes wander to the amount of pills you had to help your mother count out when the little alarm in your phone rang. Then again, you never needed to question his intentions when he showed up the next day with a thermos filled with the soup your mom said she enjoyed once as a passing comment.

He’s always been one to remember the smaller details.

Along with preferring to stay in his personal space, Kiyoomi wasn’t one to smile too bashfully, but you can’t help but notice that when she laid her hands on his as a _thank you_ and asked him to take care of you—the smile that graced his face looked warm.

She said that Kiyoomi seemed like a nice boy, and you agreed instantly—because he is.

He never pushed past the boundary you kept around yourself despite entering into a new relationship. There was a mutual air of respect—and neither of you expressed the desire to breech it.

Being with Kiyoomi felt as natural and in order to the flow as it does when your hands move to automatically loosen your bow when it came to packing up, or beginning with the _A_ string when the conductor motioned for you to begin tuning.

You liked to think you fit quite well together. Like the duet that an audience listens to and clap at as if they were the whole orchestra. Like the blend of the high and low notes written on a score that collides in perfect harmony.

And it feels like it too.

Every time you’re seated across each other on the stage and you’re staring straight at one another to climb with the crescendo then descend into silence—you know that your heart, along with his, are beating in the same rhythm, with the same frequency. You’ve always found that break from the real world when you picked up an instrument and you’re glad that Kiyoomi’s the one you’re entering into that dimension with.

The ten minutes on stage feels timeless. The rush from the music _still_ resonates in an infinite echo—your fingers twitching, _craving_ , to fly across the notes in an encore. You’re smiling because when you stare at him—he’s smiling too. Unabashed and sparkling where you have _no_ doubt in your mind that even without the stage lights he’d gleam the same.

And even as the crowd’s still cheering as you stand hand in hand and bow next to each other, you don’t hear anything. When reality begins to trickle into your senses and the rush of intoxication wears off, you let your smile mellow into a soft curve. You face the front row and look at the seat that’s a little towards the left and try not to notice your mother’s absence. You know she was admitted to the hospital three weeks ago and she hasn’t been doing too well. Kiyoomi squeezes your hand and whispers a, “ _you did well,”_ which you nod at.

He’s still smiling even as you exit the stage and pack up your instruments so you decide not to tell him that the boy sitting in that specific seat reminded you of Hajime.

-

Hajime, on the other hand became the contact on your inbox that got pushed down further and further when the holidays passed. You meant it when you said that you could never hate him—because you know you never really could.

He still showed up on your Instagram feed posting photos about his weekend road trips to Malibu or the spontaneous trips to Vegas his new friends looped him into—and you were happy to see him glowing. More times than not, your finger would hover over the like or _send_ button to the comment you always end up deleting and you know it _shouldn’t_ be that way. But reality reminds you that it is.

Your reality reminds you that Iwaizumi Hajime is someone who was witness to your growth and decline and that he was someone _you_ chose to leave in the past.

But at the same time, his passing _hellos_ were never left unheard. Kiyoomi knew, and like always, respected that. You would think this is the part where he should be reacting a little more aggressively, but you knew him to be above petty actions. He was secure, and he let that security be known in the grip of his hand that remained steady against yours when either Hanamaki’s or Issei’s eyes would stare a bit too long. They too, let their hesitations be known when you first introduced Kiyoomi to the both of them.

Issei opened his mouth with what looked to be the beginnings of a retaliation, but Hanamaki cut him off swiftly with a resounding, “ _We’re_ happy for you,” that promptly ended the conversation at that.

Then again, it didn’t change the fact that it was after that night where Hajime’s texts to you eventually dwindled to the seasonal greetings.

You tell yourself you don’t mind.

Because you don’t.

Because you’re _fine._

-

Your mother isn’t fine.

Even though she’s been hospitalized for the past four weeks now, the past week has been specifically the most difficult. In and out of consciousness where different tubes were stuck and different needles prodded at her skin every day. It _killed_ you because the second you heard her cry from when she thought you were still asleep rang in your ears over and over again throughout the day that resulted in you missing rehearsals for that entire week.

Kiyoomi drops by after school along with Hanamaki and Issei to check up on the both of you, but eventually leave when visiting hours end.

Kiyoomi usually stays a while longer, though; sitting outside the hospital parking lot and talking over a cup of coffee became a temporary permanent for the both of you during those weeks.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, then scoots closer to you on the bench when you exhale a sigh and lean forward. When your elbows settle into a rest on your thighs, you turn to him, offering a smile. It looked more like a sad quirk of the lip but Kiyoomi must have appreciated it more than he let on because his posture relaxes with you as he exhales.

“It’s weird, Omi,” you begin. “I mean she’s been at the hospital for treatments and checkups before but _this_ is weird.”

Beside you, he stays quiet, and despite the distant noise of traffic in the background your voice sounds a little more amplified than you would have liked. None the less, you continued, “I’ve always known she hasn’t been fine but the past week just happened _so fast._ ”

Puffing out another breath, you watch as it leaves you in a cloud before bringing the rim of the coffee cup to your lips. You don’t take a sip. Coffee was never your favorite anyway.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks you and turns his body completely to face you.

You think about it, then sigh. You don’t; at least, not _yet._

“It’s okay, she’s strong,” you tell him and raise your cup as you shoot him another smile.

“So are you,” he offers as a reply, then knocks his cup against yours softly, chuckling when your face grimaces at the taste.

“Why do you always order coffee when you hate it?” he asks as he watches you take another sip.

You laugh, then scoot closer to lean your head on his shoulder. “It’s just practical,” you answer. “It helps me stay up so even if I’d rather get the peach tea, I know that one will knock me out within an hour from all the sugar.”

Kiyoomi laughs at your reply before looping his arm through yours and threading your fingers together.

“You can loosen up time to time, you know,” he tells you and you smile a smile that strains both the muscles on your face and feeling in your chest.

“I wish I could,” you answer.

-

“Are you happy?” your mother asks you later that night.

The question catches you off guard and you take a seat on her bed next to her. You don’t look at each other and instead look at the wall that’s in front of you, so, tentatively, you reply, “Of course I am.”

And she’s quiet after that so you return her silence and continue to sit next to her.

The clock hanging above the door of her hospital room ticks slowly and for a while you’re comfortable. At this point you aren’t sure whether you wanted time to move faster or slower—because you knew the moments you spend with her are granted through borrowed time.

Time that’s borrowed from the prayers you kneel and voice out every night, the needles and tubes that poke and prod at her skin every day, and from the pills you help count out every time your alarm rings.

She began slipping the minute she told you she was sick—and along the years you knew she let herself slide along the current more carelessly every time she told you she was tired.

You’re looking at her when she touches your hand and you try not to flinch at how cold her skin’s gotten. She’s smiling when you face her and it makes you inhale in a way that hurts because the look on her face practically just _tells_ you she’s _tired._

But like the two of you had always done: you stay silent and mirror your smiles instead.

 _“I’m proud of you,”_ she says and your heart breaks as you will yourself to _not_ cry. It occurs to you that she isn’t crying when she says it because her voice is resolute as it is soft. You want to ask her _why_ she’s proud of you but you don’t because you realize when this becomes a memory you just want to leave it at that.

You want to leave it as a moment where a mother is telling a child that she’s proud of her.

So instead, you ask her, _“Are you coming to see the concert with me and Kiyoomi in a few weeks?”_ just to make sure. That she’s still there; that she _will_ still be there.

Her silence is your answer before she’s reaching out between the two of you and squeezing your hands instead.

-

On a Tuesday morning the next week she passes away at 3:08 PM with her eyes closed and face serene. The nurses tell you she opened her eyes to look at the world once more before she closed them and exhaled her last breath.

 _She was probably looking for you,_ they mean to say, but you bow your head in thanks when the medical staff offer their heartfelt condolence. You aren’t sure if you wanted to see her close her eyes for her last breath, but at the same time—you wonder if that thought was too selfish on your part.

When you’re in the car in the parking lot of the hospital grounds, you smell her perfume—lilac, so you close your eyes and tell her soul _rest easy_ and _I love you._

You text Kiyoomi to meet you in the practice room to go over the score once more after you gave yourself a few more moments to pull yourself together.

He texts you back with an, “ _are you sure?”_ so you sigh because he must have already realized what happened. Your fingers hover over the keypad of your phone as you think of an excuse to cancel plans last minute but Kiyoomi’s contact photo on your phone interrupts your thoughts in a call.

Despite your hesitation, your finger press the green to answer the call almost immediately.

_“(Y/n?)”_

“Hey,” you respond.

 _“Want me to come get you?”_ Kiyoomi asks and you notice how much softer his tone is.

“I can still drive, it’s okay—“

“ _—Are you okay?”_ he cuts you off and you nod your head frantically. It felt too _automatic_ , and that thought didn’t fly by you, so you sigh.

Kiyoomi notices your silence over the line but he stays and for that you’re grateful. He isn’t really _pushing_ you and you feel a sense of gratitude again because you don’t exactly know what to say either.

Before you could reassure him that you’re in a _sense,_ “ _okay,”_ his voice breaks the silence over the line again.

_“No one else is here, so I’ll wait for you if you’re coming.”_

The smile that breaks on your face is one of relief, or at least you think it is, because your eyes are stinging and you hear yourself sniffle when you tell him a quiet _okay,_ and _thank you._

 _“I love you,”_ is what you think you hear Kiyoomi say as you cut the call and put the car in reverse.

-

“Sakusa Kiyoomi present here?” you call out with a slight chuckle as you push open the door and peek in the room.

His head snaps towards you immediately so you offer him a sheepish smile at best when you finally arrive in front of him. Kiyoomi’s eyes are softening in the way that has your heart constricting automatically so you cast your gaze down and immediately fidget with the zipper on your violin case. The steps he takes are heavy and audible in the wooden flooring so your heart hammers even more when you hear him cross the distance between the two of you.

“(Y/n),” he starts and you look up when his hands are on your shoulder. _They feel warm_ , you think, much like the look you see in his eyes when he steadies his gaze towards you.

Kiyoomi joins you in your silence when you choose to remain in it and respond to him by only stitching on another smile. The palm of his hand is still warm on your shoulder but you try to focus on anything _but_ the waves of his sympathy and presence because you _know_ the second you step back in reality, you’ll break—again.

So when his hand squeezes your shoulder and he parts his lips to say the condolence you don’t know when you’re _ever_ going to be ready for, you cut him off.

 _“Please don’t,”_ you tell him, and it’s said with a tone that’s clipped tight and with lips pulled into a straight smile—the kind where you can already feel the edges crack with every second that passes.

Kiyoomi sighs and stares at you, but backs down when he feels your body tense.

“I’m right here,” he reassures, as you cast your gaze to the side when you feel the sting in your eyes threaten to overpower you. 

“I know,” you reply and with that he turns and takes his seat again.

The two of you are facing each other when you have your fingers on your respective positions and bow hovered over the string. The metronome in the background ticks and you close your eyes _desperate_ to slip out and slip in to focus. The disconnection almost happens automatically because as soon as you hear yourself verbally count to start, your hand with the bow twitches and—

 _“(Y/n),”_ Kiyoomi cuts off and your movements automatically halt. The tone of his voice is solid and just like that you feel yourself begin to crumble; still, you try to harden, anyway.

“What’s up?” you say and open your eyes to look at him. The cello you thought was resting between his legs is set down next to his chair and his bow is on the music stand; he looks at you—intention transparent at this point.

“I love you,” he says. “ _Please talk to me—“he pleads, but you cut him off._

“Omi,” you begin. “I know what you want to tell me and I know you mean well, because you _always_ do. But _please—_ “you pause and look at him with as much intensity as you could muster before continuing, “—let me pretend like today is just a day where we’re practicing for the concert she could have _finally_ gone to.”

Across you, his body leans forward before eventually halting at the sight of you tightening your grip on your bow.

“Just let me pretend this is a normal practice and I’ll be home later with someone still waiting inside the house,” you continue, volume rising but resolve shaking.

“ _Please,”_ you finish before tucking the violin back between your chin and shoulder and raising your bow to signal the start. Kiyoomi relents with a sigh and picks up his cello and bow before looking at you.

“Ready?” he asks when his bow is positioned above the string.

“Always am,” you reply and close your eyes as you slip back in focus and feel the bow glide into the first note.

The first note is an _A_ , so you place your fourth finger on the _D string_ and slip into your empty realm with a vibrato.

 _A memory flashes_ ; you’re in the sixth grade again. It’s September, and you finally make it home with your new violin case in hand. Your mom comes home from work and smiles at you as you point at the strings and name them in the order your orchestra teacher had you memorize earlier.

 _“This one’s the A string,”_ you say and you see her smile like she’s proud of you.

The next note makes you climb to the third position, and you could recall that the dynamic changes around this measure, so along with Kiyoomi you’re pressing a little harder.

 _“We learned the third position today!”_ you hear your own voice say. It’s your second year playing and you’ve made it to the honors orchestra. Your mom sits in the living room, watching you with a twinkle in her eye that tells you she’s more than proud as you show her the arpeggio practice you learned earlier that day.

The next few notes fly across the fingerboard as the familiar crescendo builds. The depth of Kiyoomi’s strings blends with the octave you’re playing at as you feel yourself being swallowed and wading in your thoughts deeper and deeper until—

_You stop._

Because with your eyes still closed, you suddenly see her from the night before. Your mother with the glimmering eyes and fragile hands, wearing the red beanie she said was her favorite ever since her hair fell out. And your eyes are still closed when you hear her tell you that she’s _proud of you_ , her voice bringing you back to that night where you wanted to do _nothing_ more but let your defenses down.

So involuntarily you do; your eyes are still closed when you begin to weep, but you can hear movement from the background before you eventually hear Kiyoomi call, “(Y/n),”

“ _I’m sorry,”_ you say and frantically wipe away at the tears and cough out the cries threatening to overflow and spill.

“( _Y/n),”_ Kiyoomi says again and you look up.

His chair is turned so that he sits facing away from you. Your forehead scrunches with the peculiarity.

“Kiyo-“

“Just let it _out_ ,” he says then picks up his cello and continues playing from the measure you stopped at.

Then you do.

Like a thread snapping, a cry rips its way out of your throat as you finally, _finally_ allow yourself to feel the heaviness that’s long settled in your chest. Your violin along with your bow set on the floor as you crouch down and press the heels of your palms against your eyes.

 _It hurts,_ you realize, when every time you close your eyes you still _see_ her. You still _hear_ her tell you her goodnight stories, affirmations, and reassurances.

 _It hurts,_ because you’re _tired._ Tired of living in the world trying to be the adult you _know_ you aren’t just yet. You’re tired of going home and smiling with her when you could tell the reason why she has tear tracks on her cheeks was because of the call with your father you overheard from the night before.

Because you’re _angry,_ you think. You’re angry at her illness. At your father for leaving and giving the weight of being a parent and provider at the same time. At the fact that neither of you were ever vulnerable enough to even _cry_ in front of each other, and _angry_ at yourself for never having the courage to tell her that it’s _okay._

Because all this time you’re been _struggling._ Struggling to try to always be an adult when you never closed the chapter of your childhood. That you’ve always _struggled_ to push past every affirmation that you’re _okay_ and _every single one_ of those moments were just bouts of false confidence. And it’s _exhausting_ to put up a front to your own reflection.

Even when nothing has really been okay. You’re hurting even more when you realize that so you clutch your chest and cry harder.

 _This must be the consequence of pride_ , is the thought that comes to your head. You could build the strongest walls and wrap yourself in the most intricate barriers just to act tough but in time, you _will_ break.

Like now; you’re sobbing into your palms for the years’ worth of pain you let pride push away while Kiyoomi is climbing even higher than the strongest dynamic you know the piece calls for.

You know he wants to let you know that _it’s okay,_ and that you’re _safe._ His message resonates in pure clarity as he pushes on the strings harder and harder to swallow the sounds of your cries.

His back remains turned as you look at him, still crying, while your _thanks_ bubbles out as incoherent as your cries.

It _hurts,_ because you the only person you’ve cradled in your hands to heavens far higher than the ones you’ve known is _gone._

You’re still crying and the pain in your chest is still _stinging_ much like the pain from a reopened wound does, but you let him come to you as he lets you come to him in an embrace.

“Let it out,” he murmurs in your hair as you wrap your hands around his middle and cry into the fabric of his shirt. He’s probably a little uncomfortable at you sniffling right into his shirt, but the way his hands are rubbing circles on your back reassures you otherwise.

“You’re okay,” Kiyoomi says again and you cry harder because you _want_ to believe him.

Five missed calls and seven texts messages all coming from Hajime lays unopened on your phone at 6:17PM.

**-**

“She asked me if I was happy,” is what you tell Kiyoomi as the two of you stand side by side peering over her casket some days later.

“Are you?” he asks and you smile at him in a way that tells him that at the moment you’re not.

“Will you be happy?” comes the question after that and you shrug.

The lines on her face are like always, and the mole between her brows look the same. Your mother lays still in the casket, cheeks pink from the blush they put on her and lips red. You think your mother’s friends told the funeral workers to paint them her usual color, so you’re thankful for that. She looks like she’s just asleep—and you don’t know how to feel.

You want to reach out and hold her hand but you know the skin will be stiff and cold; you _don’t_ want to remember her touch like that.

To you, she’s still alive.

She _always_ will be alive.

Kiyoomi’s hand grasps yours in a way that’s as gentle as his presence has always been. When you look up then right to meet his eyes: looking like warmth despite the depth that it has words rolling out of your lips before you could comprehend the situation.

“I will be.”

Kiyoomi smiles and you look back down without bothering to further explain your answer.

You know he _always_ believes you. The sentiment is one you appreciate, but at the same time, you’re not sure if you even believe yourself at the moment. You _have_ to be strong, you think.

And just like that your defenses climb back up.

**-**

Takahiro along with Issei make it to the funeral along with Tooru and Hajime skyping in from overseas. It wasn’t as awkward like you expected it to be, and you’re glad.

Tooru’s crying along with Hajime and the rest of you as you watch her return to the opened earth.

You’ve dried your tears by the time you face Tooru and Hajime on the laptop screen, the grief on their faces similar to the one on yours.

 _“(Y/n),”_ Hajime starts, and you nod, waiting for him to continue. _“How are you holding up?”_

“I’m okay,” you respond, gaze focused to the left side of the screen—Tooru’s side.

Even though all you could see was Tooru’s expression on the screen tearing up with yours, you ignore the telltale scrunch of Hajime’s forehead where you _know_ confirms his disbelief over your words.

 _“I’m coming home next week. Got a job offer there,”_ Hajime’s voice cuts again and before you could respond Tooru’s voice thrums over the speaker as you feel Kiyoomi’s hand settle on your shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks you when you look up at him. Nodding your head, you shoot him a smile before turning back to the screen, one hand resting on top of Kiyoomi’s.

“This is Kiyoomi,” you introduce and feel yourself unintentionally holding in a breath as you sit and watch for Hajime’s reaction. He’s quiet; eyes steeled over and form rigid. _Probably just a trick of the camera_ , you tell yourself, so you open your mouth hoping to find an excuse and end the call early but Tooru’s voice overlaps yours for the second time that day.

“ _Ahh! The boyfriend?”_ He asks and you smile as you see him leaning closer to his laptop’s camera. You had to hand it to him; you _know_ that look. Tooru was someone who could craft a mask and uphold it for as long as he needs and _every time_ it was flawless.

Which was why when Kiyoomi bows his head in a greeting and greets, _“It’s nice to meet you,”_ in the tone he used with your mother, you know he hadn’t caught on to the fact that he was facing a façade.

“ _Likewise,”_ Hajime’s voice cuts through and you try to not shiver at the intensity of it.

 _“Let’s catch up when I get home?”_ he says again; this time, softer and you nod before you could think of a response.

 _“Take care,”_ is the last thing you hear from him before the camera on his side of the screen blinks back to black and Tooru’s face magnified and centered.

 _“He’s finally coming home, (y/n)-chan,”_ Tooru smiles and at the sincerity of his voice you smile along with him.

“He finally is.”

**-**

Hajime had always been, and always will be your first love. You found yourself choked up the second you see him wave at you from the arrival’s gate and you swore in that moment hugging him felt like coming home.

Which was because of _nostalgia,_ you told yourself. There had been so many firsts and memories shared with him that you know just because you _moved forward_ with your life—that didn’t mean you’d buried what you had with him in the past.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi?” he asks when you’ve settled in the grass next to your mother’s tombstone with him across you.

“Yeah, he actually played for _Itachiyama_ back in high school,” you say.

“Volleyball player turned classical musician?” he asks and you nod with a resonating _yup_ , your hand trailing down to the grass to pick on the blades aimlessly.

“He made it to nationals too,” you comment.

“Are you trying to just rub it in?” he asks and tosses some ripped grass your way. You move to the side and stick your tongue out at him which he laughs at. Hajime’s laugh reminds you of the summer afternoons in your childhood home where you’d chase cicadas and write memories in polaroids and you’re suddenly feeling nostalgic.

“Nah,” you say and smile as you look up at him. He’s facing his right and letting his eyes glaze over the gold paint of your mother’s name on the cement.

“I miss her,” Hajime whispers and you nod, your heart squeezing.

“I do too,” you reply and when he looks at you and meets your eyes, you catch yourself smiling because he has tears threatening to spill over the waterline too. “ _Every day,”_ you continue.

“You’re making me _cry,_ ” Hajime huffs and leans back facing the front after he wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Your fault for still being soft,” you laugh. Unlike you, he’s always been the type to wear his heart on his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” Hajime begins after the moments of recollection passes. You look at him and smile, not really sure whether you even have the desire to push through with the conversation or not. “ _Why are you even sorry?”_ is what you want to ask him, but you hear yourself say, _“it’s okay,_ _Haji,”_ instead.

“We could have made it,” he says again, his voice cracking as he looks at you.

“Could have,” you repeat and offer him a halfhearted smile at best.

“Do you regret us?” Hajime asks and he seems hesitant with his answer; like he doesn’t want to _know_ your answer. You shake your head no as soon as you meet his eyes and reach your hands out in the space between you.

“Never,” you say and squeeze his hands when he takes yours into his own.

“You’re going to make me cry, again. _Shit_ ,” he laughs and this time, you laugh along with him.

The afternoon, despite the September air feels warm. Almost like the summer afternoons back home. So when you close your eyes, you let your defenses down as you imagine sitting in the garden: the one with the yellow and pink flowers, shouting promises in the air with Hajime and Tooru as the three of you let the wonder of childhood guide your idea of reality.

You decide that for just a while longer, you’ll keep those same defenses down as you feel Hajime pull you to stand up with him and face the open field behind the cross of her name.

“Wanna see if we can find cicadas?” he grins and you laugh, replying, “What are we, _twelve?”_ as you follow him and break out into a run anyway.

It was in that afternoon that you realize, Hajime’s always felt like home. His presence always meant that your thoughts jumped back to the days where you watched his hair spike and grow like flowers from a garden blooming and wilting. To the days where talks of the future were shared over a dinner rolls and laughter. To the days where telling someone _“I love you,”_ felt as natural as if you were just talking about the weather.

Hajime reminded you of losing yourself in the kind of love that felt unabashed and _boundless._ Like running on fields where the sun remained in the golden hour indefinitely. He was the first love you’ve cradled with a heart that was still a stranger to the ways of the reality.

“Are you happy?” he asks you when the sun above breathes the beginnings of a goodbye. You recognize the question your mother asked you before she passed and in that moment you close your eyes and envision yourself in a different year. 

_“I am,”_ you whisper back earnestly and your heart flutters with every corner of the wall that crumbles down as you stare back at him.

He looks at you like he wants to ask a question but the thought of Kiyoomi flashes in your mind. Your eyes scan the flecks of emerald in Hajime’s as you close your eyes and feel yourself retreat along with the setting sun. The warmth in your chest remains as you think of Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi who told you to let it out and let it go. Kiyoomi with the midnight eyes who spoke of the answers to the questions you have yet to discover.

“I _have_ to be happy,” is what you tell Hajime again and the smile he gives you is soft. Like he wants to dive down your thoughts more but instead chooses to remain anchored outside your walls.

But you still lean into his embrace as he pats your shoulder when you tell your mother goodbye.

She must be happy, you think to yourself. Because today was an afternoon spent in the sun like she was alive again.

A text from Kiyoomi to you and one from Issei to his brings you back to the present. You wave goodbye to the photograph of her on the tombstone while Hajime leaves a yellow flower he picked under the sun by her name.

He smiles and you hear him say he’ll walk you home.

Your heart thrums; _it’s almost like he never left_.

**-**

Hajime _won’t_ leave.

Despite your intention for him to _not_ show up to your house being _extremely_ blunt in your text message, he shows up thirty minutes after Kiyoomi’s parked into your driveway.

“Hajime,” he grins, introducing himself with a hand stretched out in greeting as Kiyoomi looks at it in contemplation. You watch the two of them, three feet away and anxious at their _first time_ face to face interaction.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” your boyfriend says and reaches out to shake his hand. You could practically _feel_ yourself sigh in relief.

“Haji, you didn’t have to come,” you say and shoot him a tight lipped smile. “Omi and I can handle the boxes, plus there’s not much left to pack up anyway.”

“So,” Hajime begins, turning around and _blatantly_ ignoring what you just said. “Makki says there’s some heavier stuff in the attic? I can help you with that.”

Kiyoomi looks at you as you eventually sigh and nod at him to follow Hajime up into the attic.

-

For the rest of the day it went on like that. At every hint you dropped in regards to the _lack_ of necessity for Hajime’s presence—he’s suddenly tuning out and changing the topic. It was like he _couldn’t hear._ You huff when Kiyoomi shoots you a look that hints his amusement towards your predicament.

Hajime’s time in California _surely_ must have rubbed off on him.

“You two shared a lot of memories,” Kiyoomi comments after he sees Hajime point at a trinket and recall a story.

“We grew up together,” you reply and Hajime nods along with you, smiling.

“I knew she was gonna be a real one when she didn’t chicken out from catching cicadas with me,” Hajime laughs across you.

“You used to catch cicadas?” Kiyoomi questions, eyebrow quirking up. You had to fight the urge to smile at the way his two moles scrunched together.

“Used to,” you answer and grip the photo album in your hand before placing it into the box. It was one of your favorites, you remember. You spent your summer nights pasting stickers and writing captions into the photos your mom took of you, Hajime, Tooru and your dog. There were probably a few in there that were with her, but you decide you can put off the nostalgic trip for later as you shut the book and tuck it into a corner of the box.

“Sakusa,” Hajime initiates when the three of you stand back up, stretching then facing each other: Kiyoomi to your left and Hajime across the two of you. “Take care of her will you?”

“I plan to,” Kiyoomi replies beside you and you reach to squeeze his hand as you watch him offer Hajime a sincere smile.

“Can you give us a moment?” you ask Kiyoomi and he’s quick to nod.

“Thanks,” you say and lean into his kiss on your forehead before watching him grab the remaining box and make his way out the door.

Hajime stands in front of you with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“He’s a good guy,” he tells you and you smile gently, head nodding in agreement to his words.

“One of the best,” you reply, smiling.

“You’re happy right?” Hajime says more than asks, but before you could answer, he speaks again.

“I’m here for you, always,” he confesses quietly and you swallow thickly because you could already decipher the meaning behind his words.

“Who’s going to pull your scarf to remind you that it’s cold?” Hajime declares softly and you knit your eyebrows together as you tell him that you can do it yourself.

“I know you can,” he laughs and walks closer to you as he tugs off his own scarf and wraps it around your neck.

“I just like doing it for you.”

**-**

“Earlier,” Kiyoomi begins after he’s settled in the couch of your new apartment’s living room. You turn to face him, attention in focus then wait for him to continue.

“When we were upstairs Iwaizumi-san asked where you were moving.”

“Oh yeah? I forgot I didn’t tell him my new address, thanks for remi—“

“He asked again if we were going to be moving in together and I didn’t answer,” he swiftly cuts you off. You stare back at him, confused, then nod your head urging him to continue.

“I didn’t answer him at first because I wanted to see how he’d react.”

“Omi—“

“ _(Y/n),”_ he sighs. You blink back, confused.

“He still loves you.”

Kiyoomi says this like he’s just talking about the weather and because of that you’re suddenly aware of fast the room dipped into the newfound silence. Your heart hammers in your chest while you feel your hands curl into a familiar fist; fingernails automatically moving to dig into the flesh of your palms.

“Of course he does, I do too—“you reason, but his expression shifting has you revising your choice of words.

“I will _always_ love him, Omi. Haji was my friend before he became anyone else,” you explain, softly, and reach out to take his hand in yours. He smiles at you and you mirror it, appreciating the way he didn’t pull out of your touch.

“Is that it?” he asks before you look at him, eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

“What else is there?” you laugh and shift your focus to his hand on yours.

“Are you really happy?”

“With this?” he questions again and sits up, taking both of your hands in his. Kiyoomi stares with baited breath, so when the silence buzzes in your ear even louder, you nod.

“With us?” Kiyoomi whispers and the echo it delivers rings loud. You hear his question ricochet from the walls to your ears over and over again while you stare straight into the plethora of questions he chooses not to vocalize manifesting themselves in his eyes.

Then, almost slowly, you nod. Because you _are_ happy, though more so thankful. _But that’s still happiness,_ the voice in your head reasons, so you relent and cup his face.

“You’re my blessing, Kiyoomi,” is the truth that’s spoken from your lips as you watch something _living_ unfold in his.

“I love you,” is what he says and you nod, speechless, as he presses his forehead against yours because you feel _everything_ in his words.

“Are you happy?” he asks again when you part and you smile, remembering your mother and Hajime’s words. The sentiment in his question is one of honesty, that in that moment, it suddenly fills you with newfound warmth.

“She asked me the same thing,” you answer, vulnerable. Kiyoomi always had a way that made it okay to feel vulnerable.

“Because I think she knows your answer,” he tells you quietly and what he says makes you think of his words.

“I’ll get there,” is what you planned to answer but before you could get the words out you’re suddenly widening your eyes as you see Kiyoomi shift and bend down on one knee in front of you, a ring in his hand.

-

 **Three years later** | **Italics in flashback**

For the first time in your life everything felt connected.

From the pin that held your veil together, to the yellow and pink roses that bloomed along an aisle of white.

Everything felt like it was finally in place as Tooru took one look at you from behind the doors and teared up.

“Please don’t make me cry,” you tell him and smile as you loop your arm through his.

“This is payback for making _me_ cry when you asked if I could give you away,” he laughed before dabbing at the corners of his eyes.

“Thank you, Tooru,” you whisper as he gives you one final look. The browns of his eyes reminded you that you are loved.

“Your mom would be so happy now,” is his reply as the doors open.

 _She would be happy,_ you think as you take one, two, then four steps forward as you grip your bouquet tighter. The pendant with her photo is surrounded in gold plating, and you find yourself thinking that nothing suited her better than gold.

To and for you, she had _always_ been golden.

You feel Tooru part with you midway as he lets you walk the final stretch alone. It was supposed to be the other way around, Issei commented before, but Takahiro was quick to side with you and say it was fitting. Even if Tooru stood in your parent’s place to symbolize giving you away, a parent’s job is really just to walk with you to the halfway mark in life and let you walk the rest of the way alone.

You find yourself smiling at the memory.

The engagement ring on your left finger catches the light from the photographer’s flash as the first notes of a cello play.

 _“I would ask you to marry me but I know you’re going to tell me no,”_ _Kiyoomi tells you._

_“I don’t know you, yet, (y/n). But I know you just enough to know there’s some things you are choosing to not let go of.”_

_You watch him stare at you, eyes soft and understanding you’re suddenly overcome with the urge to cry again._

From the aisle, your eyes catch Kiyoomi’s as he stares back at you, beautiful and iridescent in the light. He’s always looked the most beautiful when he felt connected with music, you think. Much like now, as he presses harder on the strings and close his eyes to slip into the element.

_“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi soothes, and reaches forward to wipe the tear sliding down your cheek._

_“I don’t think I got to know you, just yet. I only saw bits of who you were under that exterior and neither of us know if we could work as well then if we lay ourselves bare now,” he continues and you nod, understanding his point._

_“I love how resilient you are, (y/n),” Kiyoomi whispers and you smile because his voice isn’t cracking. He’s okay with this, and somehow, that lifts the heaviness in your chest. “I love how you never break despite the situation, but I’ve only known that side of you so far.”_

_“You deserve someone who’s seen you from the start. I can stay and we can work this out, but I don’t know if I’ll love you then. Iwaizumi loved you then and now, and I think you still do too. I could never take you away from that.”_

_“I don’t want to ask you who you are yet,” he says and you nod telling him you’re still getting to know yourself too._

_“She’ll be proud of you regardless,” Kiyoomi finishes and with that you sob._

Kiyoomi opens his eyes and looks at you with a smile while he continues to play. _Thank you,_ you mouth telling him, and he smiles as he plays harder.

_“For what it’s worth,” you begin. “I know,” Kiyoomi finishes and the smile on his face is as sincere as his words. “Our time will always be a part in history that will be ours.”_

_You inhale, smile, and then cup his face in your hands. “It will always be priceless,” you add._

This was a piece you recognized from years ago, you recall with a smile. If you had your violin with you, it wouldn’t take much for you to remember the score and slip into a duet with him. The dynamics, you recognized too—and the way Kiyoomi’s playing only tells you he’s playing even louder.

Three years ago he played the same piece you would have played for the concert your mom _would_ have finally made it to. The same day she died you sat in a practice room with Kiyoomi, crying your heart out as the he plays the _same_ melody you’re walking to now.

 _Let it out,_ is what he told you and you did just that.

 _Let it go,_ is what he also wants you to know and you did that too.

All your life you’ve thought of love and thought it was lost when you lost her. Kiyoomi, you realize, is the love you were just beginning to learn. The love you’ve parted with before you tangled yourself in too deep; and perhaps in another lifetime you could chase each other bare bones and all, but in _this_ life you know Hajime is the love you thought you closed the door to despite leaving it ajar.

One last look at Kiyoomi lets you see that he closes his eyes as you turn away and face forward.

And when you do, you see colors.

Green from his eyes, like the leaves on your bouquet and the grass outside your childhood home. A yellow flower pinned on his breast pocket; the color from the petals of a flower your mother loved to grow the most. Pink; like the color his cheeks turned into when you first shook his hand.

Then when he smiles at you—you feel a sense of _home._ When you see him begin to _cry,_ you feel a sense of love that washes over you like the soft waves of the shallow end.

_Steady, constant, and safe._

_Love,_ like the words your mother wrote to you in a letter you discovered in an old journal. Where she wrote that even if she never had your father to love, she found _her_ love in _you._ To be _cradled_ in you so that was enough for her.

That she knew she was strong, but even more so because her strength was drawn from being _with_ you.

 _Love,_ like the words from a friend as you remember Kiyoomi’s reminder that it’s _okay_ to take that hand that just wants to pull you out of the deep end.

 _Love,_ like the awakening from the depth and seeing that _Hajime_ is the hand that’s been there all along and you have yet to take.

 _Love,_ you remember like your mother’s voice.

 _Love,_ like the one that has been _with_ you since the beginning. Because you were loved from the very start.

And _Hajime—_ whose name spoke of beginnings.

-

**Author's Note:**

> for my mother, whose love cradled me from the very beginning. may you rest in heavens where the flowers bloom the most beautiful. i love you.
> 
> tell a parent figure that you love them today, and hug them real tight. :)


End file.
